what does that word mean exactly? where you come from. where the heart is or was or will be. i've had plenty of time to think about it, and to wonder where these words all go, these stranger-letters, data catchments, stories and hints at stories and things left out to tell later over a beer or one of the minibar bottles i nicked from the plane.
exploring portland with my two new favourite people - industrial salvaging missions, drunken fighting, singing, booty dancing, and many a real conversation; a weekend at the beach where we went crabbing and a seal stole our bait; the endless vegan restaurants; finding texta's art show in some beauty salon and standing outside the boxing ring next door singing gay showtunes at the monkey boys sparring; puppet shows, punk rock, beetroot and blackberry pie. it's hard to find the list of adventures in my head right now, sitting on a friend's bed in my home town, trying to finish this thing. wondering if i should.
i didn't expect to have such a swell of emotion returning home, and maybe it was sleep deprivation and missing people i just left that made me emo on the train down from portland, drawing the boat of returning and falling awake in the night to think like i always think in the empty time, i should be writing this down, or something. flying into sydney was an amazing feeling though; the plane ducks low over the water and this dirty old town pops up all shining its weak steel grin and you can't help but smile back, spin out on the accents, run outside and smell the crisp spring air oh eucalyptic, oceanic, fucken oath. not planning to stay too long but planning to stay. fuck it, who makes plans anyway? foolish romantic projects forever.
i'm not going to finish this thing, cause i'm not going to finish travelling or telling stories. not cause i'm too jet lagged to think of a fitting exit. it's just the way i like to be in the world.
i like to be in the world. it's a fine place to be.
exploring portland with my two new favourite people - industrial salvaging missions, drunken fighting, singing, booty dancing, and many a real conversation; a weekend at the beach where we went crabbing and a seal stole our bait; the endless vegan restaurants; finding texta's art show in some beauty salon and standing outside the boxing ring next door singing gay showtunes at the monkey boys sparring; puppet shows, punk rock, beetroot and blackberry pie. it's hard to find the list of adventures in my head right now, sitting on a friend's bed in my home town, trying to finish this thing. wondering if i should.
i didn't expect to have such a swell of emotion returning home, and maybe it was sleep deprivation and missing people i just left that made me emo on the train down from portland, drawing the boat of returning and falling awake in the night to think like i always think in the empty time, i should be writing this down, or something. flying into sydney was an amazing feeling though; the plane ducks low over the water and this dirty old town pops up all shining its weak steel grin and you can't help but smile back, spin out on the accents, run outside and smell the crisp spring air oh eucalyptic, oceanic, fucken oath. not planning to stay too long but planning to stay. fuck it, who makes plans anyway? foolish romantic projects forever.
i'm not going to finish this thing, cause i'm not going to finish travelling or telling stories. not cause i'm too jet lagged to think of a fitting exit. it's just the way i like to be in the world.
i like to be in the world. it's a fine place to be.
subscribe
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home